Chapter Text
Maekar Targaryen felt as though he were being consumed by a raging fire.
It was a blaze of fury, hatred, frustration, and pain, spreading violently from the hollow in his chest that felt as if it had been gnawed by venom, sweeping through his entire body.
He should have acted the moment he stepped into this chamber—into the Hand's solar—to slay the Demon before him and rescue his brother from this hellish prison.
Yet his cursed body froze amidst the flames, standing there rooted to the spot, forced to witness the grotesque and obscene acts unfolding beneath his very eyes.
Baelor.
On the Hand’s bed, only a few paces away, the Prince of Dragonstone, the Protector of the Realm, and the Hand of the King—Maekar’s noble, virtuous, and kingly brother—was pinned naked within the rough and forceful embrace of the Blackfyre bastard, being brutally impaled and desecrated.
That body, which should have been filled with strength, shuddered under the relentless waves of the savage thrusting. As if its very essence had been drawn out, he lay softened in the arms of the man who shackled him from behind and violated him from below. His sun-kissed skin was flushed with a deep scarlet, dampened by sweat like a ripened fruit that would yield sweet nectar with the slightest touch.
—Yes, like a sweet, succulent fruit. Upon the Crown Prince’s firm chest, two rosy tips stiffened like ripened berries glistening in honey, quivering piteously as if aching for someone’s touch.
Beneath that maddeningly slender waist, his long and powerful legs were forcibly wrenched apart by the villain behind him. The damp, hidden sanctuary between them exuded a scent and color more intense than anywhere else, like blood oranges, ripe and steeped in dark wine. At the center, the Prince’s own length, though untouched, stood tremulously rigid against his belly, weeping beads of moisture that only made the crimson heat below—already being frantically invaded by the Black Dragon’s dark-purple shaft—all the more slick. More and more fluids welled from the junction, squelching with a lewd, rhythmic sound amidst the friction.
Yet his face—his brother’s face, scarred yet all the more heroic and handsome for it—was turned aside, refusing to face Maekar. His furrowed brow and trembling lips spoke of a struggle to endure the humiliation, yet that stoicism was drenched in a raw, spreading flush, appearing soft enough to melt in one's mouth—as if merely by watching, one could taste a heavy, intoxicating sweetness on the tongue.
Occasionally, low and velvet moans escaped Baelor’s suppressed lips, like dark silk being slowly drenched in thick syrup, brushing against Maekar's spine with a soft, slow, and cruel touch.
He had never seen—never in reality—his brother in such a state.
"Well, nephew? Do you like the view you see?" Daemon Blackfyre paused, casting a mocking grin at Maekar. He extended his tongue, slowly licking upward along the elegant line of Baelor’s neck. His venomous gaze flickered toward the younger Prince’s lower body, glinting with a malicious delight: "Ah, yes, of course you would."
No.
His elder brother was a natural leader, a noble prince, and the finest knight in the Seven Kingdoms.
He was the undaunted youth who never lost his fighting spirit even when battered and bloodied in the mud of the tourney grounds; the unyielding warrior tempered through a thousand hardships and trials; the majestic ruler whose mere word could restore silence and order to a chaotic hall. His gallantry on horseback was unmatched, his movements with a spear were as graceful as flowing water, and the way he swung his sword at enemies was like the Warrior made flesh—
How could such a man submit beneath a wicked dragon, allowing himself to be violated and defiled like a ravished maiden?
He would never allow it; it was impossible for any feeling other than grief, rage, and loathing to arise from such an atrocity—
As if sensing his gaze, Baelor’s body suddenly convulsed, arching wildly backward. Between his legs, his length—flushed a deep, bruised purple—trembled violently in its rigidity. Finally, with a beast-like low growl from the Blackfyre bastard, the climax erupted. The thick, white seed sprayed across the Crown Prince’s chest, belly, and lips, standing in striking contrast against his honey-toned skin.
"Maekar..." Even as his body slumped, his brother’s frame continued to twitch in waves. Beneath his tightly closed lids, his reddened, glistening lips parted with a slight quiver. The voice that escaped him was fractured and fragile, yet it possessed a sweetness—as if steeped in honey—that made one shudder.
"Please...Valonqar...I beg you...don't look at me—"
Then, Daemon Blackfyre forcefully wrenched his face around, crushing the remaining words within a predatory, feverish entanglement of lips and tongues.
Maekar watched his brother’s hands reach back feebly, clawing uselessly at the arms of the man who held him. What should have been an attempt to break free and resist appeared, in that moment, more like a frantic yearning for more, an impatient demand—
After that long, lewd, and deep kiss, Daemon withdrew from Baelor’s body with a gentleness that stood in jarring contrast to his previous violence. The Black Dragon’s sinful seed welled forth like a spring from the Crown Prince’s reddened, swollen opening, which had been violated to the point it could no longer close. Maekar could even see the vivid, tender flesh within, pulsing in hollow, rhythmic contractions.
"Your brother is quite the lying little whore, nephew." The wretched lecher held Baelor tight, looking entirely sated, speaking with an air of superiority as if he possessed all the truths of the world: "The more he craves a thing, the more desperately he denies it."
"I didn't intend to spill so soon," his voice shifted to a tone of regret, yet it was heavy with a dark, doting affection, as if he were still savoring the afterglow of his climax: "But he was wetter and hotter than usual today, clinging to me, sucking at me so tightly... I simply couldn't hold back." He reached out to dab some of his own fluid that had flowed onto the sheets, smearing it together with what remained on Baelor’s chest. His palm moved in steady, lingering circles, as if intent on rubbing their mingled essences into the Crown Prince’s skin, until they seeped deep into his very flesh and blood.
Then the bastard raised his gaze, fixing Maekar with a look that was contemptuous, mocking, and even held a hint of possessive reprimand.
"Perhaps it is because he is always thinking of shielding you weak little lambs behind him, taking everything upon himself."
Blackfyre’s voice was light and low, as if he were merely murmuring to himself, yet it carried a trace of visceral, aching bitterness.
"So I had no choice but to help him." Then came a sigh, followed by a deliberate, performative helplessness meant to ridicule. The bastard curled his lips into that signature, nonchalant and provocative smile: "Isn't that what the duty of the Kingsguard is all about? To serve my Prince with all that I am."
Those insidious words caused the blood in Maekar’s entire body to run cold in an instant.
As expected, that despicable and shameless scoundrel had long been coveting his perfect elder brother.
Looking back now, the signs had been there as early as when the so-called "Great Bastard" was fourteen, when he rejected the marriages arranged for him under two successive reigns—that of Daemon’s own father, and the father of Baelor and Maekar.
"Thank you for your kindness, brother," Daemon Blackfyre had said then, standing tall and proud in the Throne Room before King Daeron and the assembled court. The smile on his face had been flawless, both proper and charming: "But I wish to choose my own bride."
No one saw the scheme hidden beneath that smile.
"When that time comes, I shall ask you to hold the grandest wedding for me."
Furthermore, no one knew that barely six months after Jena’s passing, while Baelor was still steeped in mourning, that cunning lecher had lost no time in seizing his chance. He had broken into his brother’s solar, shamelessly declaring his intent to woo him—to woo the Prince of Dragonstone, the heir to the Iron Throne, the most noble and stainless man the Seven Kingdoms had ever known.
Baelor should have refused; he should have summoned his own brother, allowing Maekar to crush that rake's skull with one swing of his mace. If those traitors who supported the Black Dragon dared to rise, then he would slaughter them all, nourishing the grass of the battlefield with their blood.
But his brother, the saintly Baelor Targaryen, chose to compromise for the sake of a so-called peace, laying himself like a sacrifice upon the altar to that vile dragon.
It had to be admitted that without the thing called Blackfyre as a rallying point—whether the sword or the man—extinguishing the voices questioning the throne had indeed become as simple as blowing out a candle.
And that rebel, who never even kindled a spark, howled like a wounded beast when he was ignominiously dragged before them and forced to kneel at the foot of the dais.
"Everything I did, I did for you!" Bittersteel looked neither at Baelor nor at Maekar, staring fixatedly at Daemon with eyes that seemed ready to spit fire: "Is this how you repay me? Brother!"
"Don't deceive yourself, brother," he heard Blackfyre sneer. He watched the man, who should have been cut from the same cloth as Bittersteel, standing to the right of Baelor’s seat in a possessive stance, resting a hand upon the back of his brother’s chair: "Everything you did was for yourself, to get what you wanted. As did I."
And Maekar could not help but notice how that single, lingering index finger slowly stroked the edge of the chair's back with a nauseating gentleness.
"Now that I know what I truly want, I shall not hesitate for a moment longer."
"For this Dornish whore?!" the black-haired bastard bellowed. His voice, torn by rage, mockery, and disbelief, verged on madness: "What spell did he cast on you to make you grovel at his feet like a dog, casting aside even your dignity?"
Daemon strode down the steps, his mailed fist delivering a brutal blow that sent Bittersteel crashing to the ground.
"Watch your tongue, brother, if you do not wish to have it torn out with red-hot pincers." Blackfyre’s threatening voice still carried a laugh, yet it held a bone-chilling coldness. That blood-stained hand pressed down, forcing Bittersteel’s face and his entire body hard against the floor: "I lack the pathetic cowardice of Aemon the Dragonknight. Anyone who deserves to die, I will send to hell with a smile, be they brother or king."
The restrained rebel ceased his struggling upon hearing those words, seemingly realizing something in an instant.
"You," he gasped, eyes wide as he looked up at the man grinding him into the cold stones, as if he were about to be hanged: "You wouldn't—"
"Indeed, brother." Daemon shrugged nonchalantly, his tone as casual as if he were choosing a dinner wine: "I have no more use for that land. I plan to give it to Valarr, or Matarys—whichever of those two little whelps I find more to my liking."
—Exactly. This scoundrel had planned it all. Everything had been calculated.
Maekar remembered it vividly. A year after Aegor Rivers had been exiled across the Narrow Sea—a moment of their dear father’s misplaced mercy that had left trouble for everyone—King Daeron held a grand tourney at King's Landing to celebrate the birth of the twin children of his third son, Rhaegel.
In that tournament, Baelor and Daemon faced each other once more in the final tilt. Their clash felt like a reenactment of the legendary duel where his brother had earned the name "Breakspear." Charge after charge, their shields shattered each other's lances, only to wheel their horses and begin anew. Every movement of the Red Dragon Prince and the Black Dragon Lord showed no hesitation; they were perfect mirrors of one another, performing a meticulously choreographed dance, synchronized with a focus that allowed for no flaws amidst a rhythm of swift, explosive power.
Finally, in the seventh tilt, as Daemon’s seventh lance shattered against Baelor’s shield, countless petals erupted from the hollow wood—violets, winter roses, and dark splinters. Purple, blue, and deep brown petals interlaced as they danced in the air, echoing the very colors of the eyes that met in that clash, like brilliant fireworks blooming in broad daylight.
Amidst the awe of the crowd, their bastard uncle raised his visor, dismounted, and conceded. His brother, surrounded by thunderous cheers, rode to the stands and presented the garland of the Queen of Love and Beauty to his little niece, Aelora, who was giggling on Rhaegel’s lap.
As the tourney drew to its close under that rain of falling petals, Daemon Blackfyre offered a formal salute to King Daeron on his throne, then knelt on one knee before Baelor Targaryen, allowing the Crown Prince to drape the white cloak of the Kingsguard over his shoulders.
Maekar did not miss the devout yet scorching heat in the bastard’s gaze as he looked upon his brother, nor did he fail to catch the words silently shaped by those thin lips as they curled into a smile.
"My Queen of Love and Beauty," the man whispered. "My... Naerys."
In that instant, a raging fire of fury and a sickening chill seeped from Maekar’s chest like venom.
—What kind of demon could conceive so vile a travesty?
Those nobles who had once supported the Black Dragon—including Aegon the Unworthy himself—had spawned foul, lewd rumors to bastardize his father’s bloodline, whispering that King Daeron was the product of a clandestine affair between Aemon the Dragonknight and Queen Naerys.
By donning the White Cloak now, Daemon had indeed delivered a stinging slap to all those past malice-mongers. Yet, he had also personally weaponized the sin within those filthy legends. He had utilized his status as a Kingsguard, relying on a King—Baelor and Maekar’s father—who had undeniably taken leave of his senses and remained willfully blind, allowing a predator to be appointed as the Crown Prince’s sworn shield. Thus, at any moment he deemed "convenient," he could lay hands upon the very person he was sworn to "protect."
"...How dare you?" Maekar Targaryen’s eyes strained as if the very sockets might burst, his entire frame trembling as his clenched fists creaked at his sides. A rasping voice squeezed through teeth that felt as though they might shatter: "Prince Aemon upheld his vows until his dying breath, fighting for the purity and honor of Queen Naerys, and dying in the execution of his duty to the King. A base, scheming creature like you—consumed by lust and brazen ostentation—is not fit to be named in the same breath as him."
"I am not fit?" The bastard let out a cold sneer. "He is the one who was unfit."
"What kind of knight is he, who could not even dry the tears of sorrow from the one he swore to protect?" That gaze and tone, utterly contemptuous and bordering on indignant, shifted into a state of superior, infuriating satisfaction: "Oh, I make your brother weep often enough, it’s true... but never, never has it been from sorrow."
And when that gaze fell upon his lower body once more, it became even more brimming with malice.
"Speaking of lust," Daemon’s cunning smile cut through him like a blade, "Who was it just now, watching with a face full of hunger as his own brother was being ruthlessly fucked?" Baelor’s body jolted violently at those words, and more fluids trickled out. "Who was it, licking every inch of him with greedy eyes, praying to the Seven that the one filling his sweet, wet hole was himself?"
In that instant, the world felt as though it were tearing at the seams, staggering and spinning before his eyes.
No, Maekar told himself. This is but another of the demon’s lies, another scheme. That was not him.
His love for Baelor was pure—it was the love of a younger brother for an elder, the love of a knight for his king—
...Then why was his chest so cold at this moment, while his body continued to sear in the agony of the demon’s fire?
The bastard stared at him for a moment and, as if seeing something satisfying, deepened that detestable, provocative smile.
Those hands, propped behind Baelor’s knees, began to slide slowly along the beautiful lines of his brother’s thighs until they firmly gripped the taut curves of the buttocks beneath. The villain kneaded them with a wanton obscenity, forcing a few sob-like gasps from his brother, only to then—with a sudden, violent heave—pry the Crown Prince’s tightening entrance wide.
That small, moist, piteous orifice pulsed desperately, as if gasping for air, craving for something. Within, the visible flesh was a vivid, throbbing red, much like his brother’s lips, swollen from being sucked and kissed...
"Come here, nephew." The demon’s whisper coiled around his ear, and that violet light, piercing through his brother’s trembling body and glowing eerily in the gloom, was like a ghost-fire rising from the pits of the seven hells:
"Do you not hunger for him?"
He should have turned away immediately, strode out of the Hand’s solar, and never looked back. He should have drawn his sword, slaughtered that wicked dragon, and then draped his own cloak over his brother, vowing that he would never again let Baelor suffer a moment of humiliation or harm.
Instead, before his brother and that demon, he stripped the clothes from his own body with a desperate urgency and climbed onto the massive bed where his brother lay.
He gazed intently at Baelor’s handsome, stubborn face—a face that, from beginning to end, refused to meet his eyes. Fragments of past, better days flickered through the slight trembling of Baelor’s lashes, the firm line of his nose, and his lips, parted in a soft, breathless invitation.
No, perhaps they weren't exactly "better" days; it was just that all the fear and suspicion of those shadowed years had long since dissipated like the morning mist before the sun. All the hardships and struggles had been smoothed over by the victories and glory they had won, leaving only the memories of two brothers supporting one another.
In those days, Maekar always walked a step behind Baelor, watching his brother’s broad, steady back and his commanding presence, moving in perfect synchronization with his pace.
He is the Crown Prince of the Realm, and I am his knight. He cherished the thought in his heart, never doubting that when the time came to face their enemies, he would stand before his brother, offering his entire being to protect him and ensure his every safety.
Yet now, as his gaze followed the beads of sweat sliding down his brother’s forehead, along the line of the neck, to that drenched, naked, honey-toned body—radiating the scent of desire and flushed with a feverish crimson glow, rising and falling with every breath—a sting, far different from fury, surged from his lower body. A shudder racked him, and a guttural, primal growl escaped his parched, searing throat.
Baelor.
Baelor.
Baelor.
The curve where the waist met the root of the thighs was breathtaking.
His brother’s waist was slender—as if he could encircle it with just his two hands—yet the lines were graceful, yet supple and deceptively strong. Maekar had always known this, of course, but he first truly felt the depth of that strength on the night before the ball celebrating his betrothal to Dyanna, when Baelor had volunteered to be his practice partner, staying by his side deep into the night.
When his brother’s hand, slightly smaller than his own, was tucked into his palm, it felt perfectly right. And as his arm pressed with a hesitant stiffness against Baelor's lower back, a teasing yet tender chuckle reached his ears.
He was guided on the size and placement of his steps, how to mind his partner’s pace and the distance from others, but the command to "keep your eyes on your partner" was entirely redundant—he had no desire to look anywhere else. Their fingers hooked and intertwined as he tried to lead Baelor in a turn, and the feeling of pulling him back into his arms after the rotation was nothing short of exquisite.
As he held Baelor’s waist, supporting him as he leaned back, a pair of arms circled his neck, pulling him down abruptly. He crashed heavily against his brother’s chest, but Baelor remained unfazed, steadying the impact while suspended in mid-air.
"Pull yourself together, brother," Baelor teased with a smile, his warm hands cupping Maekar’s cheeks. Those beautiful heterochromatic eyes shone brilliantly as Maekar hovered over him, and his lips, glistening under the light, looked as soft as flower petals. "If Dyanna loses her balance and falls back like this, you must catch her properly."
In that moment of shared breath, Maekar could not help but take a step forward, sliding one leg between Baelor’s own, pressing it firmly and deeply against the sinewy inner thigh of his brother.
It was for no other reason than to better support his brother and help him find his balance. No other reason at all.
Those were legs of great power, possessing lithe resilience, speed, and explosive force—Maekar knew this all too well. Whether in running and jumping, in combat and brawling, or in galloping upon a horse—his brother was a master of horsemanship, capable of controlling a spirited stallion with his legs alone, even without reins. Whenever he saw Baelor stretching those long, beautiful legs in a relaxed seated posture, or the moment he gripped the horse’s flanks during a charge, Maekar could not help but imagine the feeling of being encircled and squeezed by that very strength.
Then, more fragments of memory surged forth—
Baelor, who would wrap them both in a bundle of blankets on cold winter nights during their childhood, smiling at him with doting affection; Baelor, walking a pace ahead of him, revealing a small patch of honey-toned nape between his crisp short hair and the high collar of his doublet…
Baelor, who would rejoice at his progress during combat training yet yield not an inch, his heterochromatic eyes shining with warmth, a brother’s fond pride, and a fighting spirit all at once; Baelor, who might drift to his side while discussing matters of state—those slender fingers tracing the tabletop as he thought, each slow, deliberate stroke brushing against the very strings of Maekar's heart…
Baelor, who would gently pull him into an embrace to provide comfort and strength when Maekar was consumed by indignation over the words of dissenters, struggling to suppress his anger and tears; Baelor, who, while trying to help him unfasten his greaves, knelt before him and looked straight up with those beautiful heterochromatic eyes, his lips slightly parted...
"Please, brother," Baelor’s voice broke the silence—shattered yet sweet, it reached into the depths of Maekar's soul, pulling him back to the present with a sudden, aching surge of hope.
He looked toward his brother, his heart laid bare and brimming with expectation, only to be met by a plea that felt like a blade to the chest: "Please... don't look at me..."
He was still saying it. Still rejecting him. Still averting his gaze, refusing to grant him even a single look.
Maekar’s eyes swept over his brother—how Baelor’s face was buried deep in Daemon’s neck to avoid facing him; how his body lay nestled in Daemon’s embrace as if seeking refuge, showing not a hint of resistance; and how, between those long, beautiful legs, that small hole remained open to him, looking unimaginably sweet yet still weeping the bastard’s seed...
In that instant, the demon’s fire swept through him, roaring high within his veins and staining his vision a visceral red.
How could he choose Daemon Blackfyre?!
To choose a man who had broken his nose in a melee? To choose a man who, under King Aegon’s malicious manipulation, had caused their family so many years of shame and suffering—
Was he not the one who had spent the most time by Baelor's side?
Was he not the one who had most often fought beside him, supporting him at every moment?
Was he not the one who loved him... more deeply than anyone else?
And so Maekar Targaryen leaned down, kissing Baelor with a reckless desperation, seizing his brother’s lips, his breath, and his attention as if it were his birthright—the most natural thing in all the world.
Baelor’s lips were far softer than he had imagined, tasting of the sweet fragrance of Dornish wine and summer fruits. Maekar savored every inch of his brother's mouth, finally entwining his tongue with Baelor’s, thrusting and rubbing with a feverish intensity that felt like a wanton, decadent coupling.
He hooked one hand around Baelor’s lower back, tearing his brother from the bastard’s embrace, while his other hand thrust two fingers deep into his brother’s hole, stirring fiercely within.
—He would purge every bit of the filth Daemon Blackfyre had left inside his brother; he would use the very fluids Baelor shed for his fingers to wash away every trace of that damned bastard.
The sounds Baelor made for him—the cries, the gasps, the moans—though faint, echoed in his ears like the tolling of the bells at the Great Sept. And whenever his brother began to resist again, Maekar would seal his mouth with his own, swallowing every word he didn't want to hear.
By the time he had prepared his brother’s body, he realized his own hardness was already throbbing and swollen as if on fire, the tears weeping from its tip drenching the entire shaft until it glistened.
He licked slowly across his brother’s jaw and the soft corners of his mouth, sucking in the smeared, drying seed Baelor had splashed there. The taste of his brother spread across his tongue and filled his mouth, leaving him intoxicated in a surge of excitement so intense he nearly wept.
Unable to wait a moment longer, he urgently pulled Baelor to him and thrust himself into the sanctuary where he had always belonged.
Gods, Maekar couldn't help but groan the moment they joined. He felt a sense of wholeness he had never known—as if the hollow in his chest, once gnawed by venom, had finally been sealed. It was a brimming joy, a satisfaction so immense it felt as though it would burst his ribs open.
His brother’s body was exquisite—so wet, so hot, so tight, and so soft... like a searing kiss, a hungry embrace, enveloping him in the profound, private vulnerability of Baelor’s innermost depths.
Baelor’s hands rested upon his shoulders. The touch from his brother, and the feeling of him seeking support, sent a swell of emotion through Maekar’s chest, surging like a broken dam.
Driven by this, he worked even harder, every thrust a craving to go deeper, and deeper still, until his presence was rooted in the very core of Baelor Targaryen’s soul—completely saturating him, possessing him, ensuring he could never be torn away...
And when he finally poured everything into his brother, letting out a sigh of profound satisfaction, sparks of deep brown and blue-violet flickered before his eyes—like the radiance blooming from those breathtaking, soul-stirring eyes. Overwhelmed with emotion, he gathered his brother into his arms, pressing their sweat-drenched, naked bodies together, fusing into one another until not a single sliver of space remained.
Then he felt the warm droplets of water falling upon his neck.
The fire in his chest was extinguished in an instant, replaced by a hollow coldness. Filled with unease, he carefully supported his brother, pulling back slightly only to meet a face drenched in tears.
Baelor was weeping.
His brother—the man who seemed forged of steel, calm, steady, and unshakeable—who had never shown a moment of weakness or shed a single tear even during the hardest and darkest of times, was now trembling. That noble, majestic face was beautifully distorted by pain; crystalline tears formed beneath those long, dark lashes, breaking and falling in a continuous stream.
Gods, what have I done?
He had succumbed to the temptation of the demon’s fire within him, allowing the ugly jealousy and desire that had been festering in the depths of his soul to consume him. He had raped Baelor—the brother he had sworn to cherish, protect, and serve with his very life.
Those hands his brother had placed on his shoulders were not seeking support; they were meant to push him away.
He withdrew from Baelor’s body in a panic—hardly able to heed the hollow, piercing sense of loss as they separated—watching what he had released spill from where they had been joined. The passion and love he had poured out now became the evidence of his desecration of his own kin.
Compared to Bittersteel, it was he who was truly cut from the same cloth as Daemon Blackfyre—no, he was a beast even baser than that.
A pair of arms reached out, taking Baelor away from him and pulling him back into Daemon Blackfyre’s embrace.
He did not stop it. He had no right.
"Don’t cry, my dear," the Kingsguard whispered, cupping the Prince’s face. His thumb brushed tenderly over the dark skin, wiping away the tears at Baelor’s eyes with infinite gentleness. "Everything I did... was only to make you mine more completely."
Then Blackfyre held the man in his arms tight and kissed him deeply.
He watched as his brother slowly relaxed in Daemon’s arms, the tension in his face softening amidst the lingering kiss. That beautiful, flushed body melted into a pool of soft honey-water under the tender touch, stretching with a languid, unbidden grace—as if it had finally found its only sanctuary. And the soft moans that Baelor let escape between their kisses carried a purity and sweetness like that of an innocent maiden.
In that moment, Maekar understood. Baelor Targaryen did love Daemon Blackfyre—truly and utterly.
What, then, was the meaning of the anger, emptiness, and bitterness that had echoed in his chest all these years?
He should strangle these ridiculous, depraved thoughts, just as he should kill himself.
Yet he could not even do that.
He still craved to look upon Baelor, still longed to linger in his brother’s shadow. It didn't matter if he were never to touch him again; he would stand sentinel like this, a silent ghost, until the demon's fire finally burned him to ash.
Just as it was now.
Then he heard Daemon Blackfyre’s voice again.
"You don't need to cast aside that which you cannot lay down, my dear." Those deep violet eyes gazed at his brother with solemn tenderness, as if making a sacred vow, a permanent promise: "Since it is a part of you, I will accept it, embrace it, and love it."
"You can continue to be the shield that takes the blows, continuing to put everything else before yourself," those eyes flicked toward Maekar briefly with utter disdain, before returning to his brother's face, softening into liquid tenderness once more: "But before me, you don't have to, and you must never do so again."
"You can be as greedy, as willful, as self-indulgent as you wish with me." Those thin lips curved into a doting yet firm smile, every word carrying the solemn weight of a mountain: "Even the darkest, basest, most shameful thoughts—I want to hear them all, and I want to fulfill them for you."
With that, the knight of the white cloak, the one named Blackfyre, bowed his head slightly, pressing his forehead against the Crown Prince’s.
"Thank you, Uncle," he heard his brother whisper. Those beautiful heterochromatic eyes remained closed, but they were entirely different from before—relaxed and serene.
"At your service, dear nephew," Daemon chuckled, releasing the Prince from his hold with an encouraging nudge toward Maekar. "Go on. Let the boy know what you're thinking."
Then he saw Baelor raise his head and compose himself, shifting closer across the bed until their skin nearly brushed once more. There was no longer any trace of hesitation in his brother's posture.
Those shimmering, soul-stirring eyes finally looked at him.
"I am sorry, Maekar, my dear brother—Valonqar."
The crystalline mirror-lakes of brown and blue-violet held his reflection now, overflowing with him and him alone.
—He was ready to drown, right then and there, in the depths of his brother’s gaze.
"I know that everything between Daemon and me makes you suffer," Baelor said. "Choosing to be with a man we once fought against... it must feel like a betrayal you can never forgive."
Baelor’s tone was exactly as it always was when he tried to soothe Maekar’s temper, yet his expression was more candid, more vulnerable than ever before—as if he were baring his very heart, offering it up in the palms of his hands.
"I can understand if you never wish to see us again, staying away from us until we are like strangers. After all, every time you look at me, it only reminds you of this betrayal—filling you with nothing but pain and disgust."
No, it isn't like that! Maekar cried out in his heart. He had simply been too jealous, too craving, too desperate—he recognized that now.
"I could accept being separated from you forever, having no more part in your life, only hearing how you fare through the words of others." There was a steadfast resolve in his brother’s declaration, akin to a knight’s final stand or a martyr’s unwavering path—so sacred, so beautiful, it broke Maekar’s heart. "But I cannot stand to see you wearing such a sad and lonely expression—it feels as though my own heart is being torn asunder."
Then, that noble, god-like Crown Prince took Maekar’s hand and pressed it against the face Maekar had no longer dared to touch.
"So tell me, Maekar, brother—" those eyes gazed at him intently, filled with plea and a tentative, aching hope: "What must I do to end your loneliness and sorrow?"
Maekar could endure it no longer; he pulled his brother into his arms and kissed his lips fiercely.
Love me, Maekar Targaryen answered in his mind, praying to his elder brother with hunger, devotion, and piety. Let me possess all of you as well. His hands moved slowly and meticulously over that exquisite body, yearning to leave marks of adoration upon every inch of skin. Just as I have offered myself to you without reserve.
To his overwhelming rapture, Baelor reached out this time, coiling his arms around Maekar’s neck to pull him closer, pressing their bodies tight together. He opened his lips to let Maekar in, responding to the kiss with a tenderness that bore an unwavering strength.
When they finally broke apart to catch their breath, Baelor’s flushed smile amidst his gasping, and his tear-bright eyes shining with joy, were sweeter than any smile Maekar had dreamed of in sleep, and more beautiful than any expression he had conjured in the lonely dark of night.
"Maekar," his usually eloquent brother seemed to have lost the power of speech, able only to repeat his name in a breathy whisper, over and over: "Maekar."
To Maekar, that was undoubtedly worth more than a thousand words.
...Everything might have been more perfect, had it not been for that calculated sigh coming from behind them.
Baelor gave him a gentle push—Gods know how much Maekar loathed to let go, to release his brother from his embrace—turning back toward that cunning bastard.
"My apologies, Uncle." The Crown Prince’s tone was as elegant and composed as if he were sitting upon the Iron Throne as the Hand of the King, extending a courtesy to a lord who had long been waiting for an audience; yet it carried a natural, easy intimacy, flowing with a tacit understanding that belonged only to the two of them. "I should not have indulged only in my own feelings and left you aside."
"It matters not, my dear. Tonight was not meant for me," Daemon said with a shrug and a smile. His expression was candid, yet tinged with a trace of weary loneliness. "Besides, for over ten years, I have always been thus—lingering in the shadows nearby, watching over you just as I am now."
—To Maekar’s ears, those words were despicable and calculated to the core. Baelor likely felt the same, for the Prince of Dragonstone let out a faint, resigned sigh.
"You know that speaking so only makes it impossible for me to leave you be, don't you?"
"I shall have you compensate me," the bastard said with utter confidence. The hunger in his eyes was unmistakable, his voice low and raspy with raw, unbridled lust, causing Maekar’s brother’s body to quiver in response. "Extensively, thoroughly, and utterly compensate me."
"I will," the dark-haired Prince replied, his composure snapping back into place. His promise rang with the finality of a decree handed down in the Small Council: "But tonight, I likewise insist."
"Tell me, Uncle—" those heterochromatic eyes held the Blackfyre's gaze unblinkingly: "Would you rather have my waist, or my hand?"
Those words, delivered with the serene yet absolute authority of a man born to rule, made Maekar want him with a frantic intensity. And Daemon, evidently, felt the same.
"Everything, my dear," the bastard breathed heavily, the violet in his eyes deepening and darkening as if ready to ignite: "I want it all from you."
"Greedy, indeed," his brother chuckled in that low, evocative way, leaning in to kiss the man: "Take what you wish, Uncle."
They returned to the position from a short while ago—Baelor lying against Daemon’s chest, while Maekar moved to press between his brother’s legs, bringing their upper bodies together once more.
He and Baelor continued their previous kiss; the intertwining of their tongues was languid and slow, yet felt indescribably erotic. One of Baelor's hands cradled the back of his head, fingers gently combing through the hair there; the feather-light touch sent a restless, unbearable ache of longing through his soul.
Those firm, sexy, honey-toned legs—just as they had appeared in his most resplendent and decadent dreams—wrapped tenderly around his waist, tightening bit by bit with their deep kiss, rubbing against him with a slow, ambiguous friction. The sensation was far more delicious than any taste he had ever imagined.
The bastard was not idle either, leaning in close against Baelor’s back, his breathy whispers hot against the Prince’s already flushed ear.
"Now, my dear," that voice carried a wicked, blasphemous tease, thick with carnal hunger: "I need a hand from the Hand, if you would be so gracious."
Baelor offered his free hand to the space behind him without the slightest hesitation. Maekar didn't even need to see; the sharp, blissful hitch in Blackfyre’s breath told him exactly how those slender fingers were busy at their work.
"So good," the bastard murmured, as if lost in a rapturous haze. "Every inch of you is heaven, my dear. I want to mark you with my seed, to leave it over every part of you."
You’ve had more than enough of him over the years, Uncle, Maekar spat in the silence of his mind, though his own rhythm never faltered. It’s someone else’s turn now.
Predictably, Daemon remained utterly indifferent to his nephew’s smoldering hostility, continuing to nuzzle and taste the shell of Baelor's ear with possessive ease, while his palms roamed across that smooth, amber chest and belly.
"...But before that," those hands finally settled upon the Crown Prince’s length and those stiffened, rosy beads, the bastard’s voice sinking to a gravelly rasp as he felt the man tremble: "I should give you the reward you deserve."
Then that rogue began to move, turning the soft moans his brother had breathed into Maekar's mouth into strangled, muffled whimpers.
Unlike the previously tender, leisurely cadence, Daemon Blackfyre’s caresses turned frantic and predatory. Under the intense stimulation, Baelor’s body arched violently backward, breaking the rhythm of his kiss with Maekar as he collapsed heavily into the bastard’s arms.
At first, Maekar felt a sharp pang of bitterness, a visceral resentment at being torn away from his brother’s lips. However, as he watched Baelor moaning and writhing helplessly under another man’s palms, and saw those enticing, tossing limbs flushed once more with brilliant color, he gradually realized that there was no better time than this—while his brother remained so defenseless and oversensitized.
His pulsing urgency had long since reached a painful peak, yearning to reclaim its place within his brother’s body. And so he did, guiding the slick, swollen tip against that aching, exquisite entrance.
Baelor, of course, read the desperate hunger in his eyes.
"Wait, Maekar!" His brother pushed himself up in panic, attempting to stop him, but that voice—nectarous and broken amidst his gasps—only served as oil upon the flames: "Not now, I’m still—"
The remainder of the plea was driven back into his throat the moment Maekar lunged forward. The slender waist of the Prince of Dragonstone arched high under this furious onslaught, the back of his head pressing hard against the Kingsguard's shoulder, unable to let out a single sound. Maekar watched as the length held in Blackfyre’s palm twitched several times, the proof of pleasure spurting forth and splattering once again across that beautiful, honeyed body.
In that same heartbeat, the passage enveloping Maekar constricted convulsively in a series of spasms, nearly dragging him headlong into the same abyss of ecstasy.
The Prince of Summerhall gritted his teeth so hard the veins on his neck corded, his entire being straining to weather the ravaging impact of his brother’s release.
Daemon’s state was no different; the older man's features, twisted into a savage mask of agonizing pleasure, offered a stark, silent confession of the same hunger that claimed Maekar.
"Gods, my dear," the bastard’s voice was a ragged, gravelly rasp, ground down by a collision of pain and ecstasy—at once sharpened by a feverish exhilaration and blurred by a heavy, wine-dark intoxication. "You gripped me so tight just now, I almost feared you meant to break my spear in bed this time."
Baelor’s form still shuddered in the aftershocks of his release, yet Maekar could feel that inner sanctuary blooming wetter and hotter at Blackfyre’s decadent provocations. It began to pulse around him, an insatiable, rhythmic weeping that pleaded for more—deeper, harder—until both the Crown Prince’s mind and his very core were drowned in a searing tide of white.
"Next, I’m taking my toll on that waist," the bastard said, catching the Hand’s limp arms—which had slipped away in the wake of his ruinous bliss—and guiding them to drape over the younger prince’s shoulders: "Grab hold of your brother, my dear; I suspect our Prince of Summerhall is tired of waiting and ready to claim his share as well."
Though he knew his brother was still drowning in the feverish swamp of the afterglow, Maekar could no longer restrain the hunger that clawed at him. Driven by the wordless pleading of the heat enveloping him, he pressed his body flush against Baelor’s, his hands seizing those exquisite long legs like iron pincers, yanking them upward until they were locked in a desperate vice around his waist.
At the same instant, Daemon pressed flush against Baelor’s back. His palms, like eagle’s talons, dug into the Crown Prince’s buttocks—kneading the yielding flesh with a bruising force before hoisting him upward. He lifted Baelor completely off the ground, pinning him in a seamless crush between his own chest and Maekar’s firm torso.
Both men launched their assault simultaneously, charging and colliding at will across the territory they sought to conquer. They wantonly ravaged the man they both loved so deeply—that incredibly steadfast, noble, and beautiful man—longing to dismantle him, crush him, and burn him to ash with the full measure of their love and lust, until he was reborn like a newly forged sword, no longer bearing a single trace of exhaustion or scar.
"Oh gods, Daemon... Maekar...!"
And that radiant idol—the embodiment of all their dreams, whether they were bright and pure, wild and untamed, or lewd and decadent—began to crumble and melt within their combined fire. Every plea, every sob from Baelor was so endearing, so maddening, driving them both to greedily force out more, and more, and more:
"I can't... I couldn't... oh please, please, please, please...!"
Baelor’s body jolted up and down with the fierce rhythm of their dual assault. Those budding, rosy peaks, every vertebrae of his arched spine, and the silken heat of his length were repeatedly pressed and rubbed amidst the slick, sweat-drenched friction of their three bodies.
Maekar could feel his brother’s heartbeat, erratic and powerful, thrumming through his own chest. He felt the flesh within his brother’s passage churned into thick, searing honey-nectar, caught in the devastating pincer attack between his own thrusts and the weight of Daemon pressing from behind. Baelor was being unmade and remade, a sacred vessel brimming with the combined essence of the two men who worshipped him.
He felt Baelor’s legs clasp even more desperately around his waist, those ten fingertips sinking deep into his back, as if clinging to Maekar as his only anchor in this turbulent world.
Finally, the overwhelming excitement, the luscious ecstasy, the infinite fulfillment... all the passion transformed into a white-hot blaze, ruthlessly filling and overflowing within the priceless soul in his embrace.
And Maekar Targaryen knew, with a certainty that shook his soul—this was the very taste of heaven.
It was the long, endless pull of the searing, honeyed swamp in which he was buried; it was the heady, intoxicating entanglement of the soft tongues within his mouth—it was the rhythm now pulsing in his chest alongside his own heart, a silent, thundering devotion which, after so much time, finally found its perfect resonance with his brother's.
＝＝
One on each side, Maekar and Daemon carefully supported the man they both craved; they guided him back against the mountain of pillows, before settling into a side-lying position to flank that honey-toned body. Baelor drifted between them, drawn into one deep, lingering kiss after another. Under their wandering touch, he continued to tremble and writhe, letting out soft, broken moans until the frantic pulses of the afterglow gradually began to subside.
"Are you willing to remain in King’s Landing, brother?" After ending yet another exhaustive kiss with the bastard, his brother turned toward him once more, gazing at him with eyes that were incomparably limpid and pure, yet staged a world of silent temptation: "Not to return to Summerhall, but to stay here—forever by my side?"
The question was so simple it required no thought. Maekar nodded with feverish haste, terrified that the slightest hesitation might give his dear brother cause to reconsider.
"Very well." His brother leaned in, granting him a brief, fleeting peck on the lips before promptly sitting up. In an instant, the air of the Hand returned to him, as though he were once again seated behind his formidable desk: "Then we must devise a sound justification for your long-term stationing in the capital."
And that did not take long at all.
"I intend to recommend you for the position of Commander of the City Watch and arrange for your seat on the Small Council—in the tradition of Daemon Targaryen." As the Hand of the King voiced the proposal, he seemed momentarily absorbed in the architecture of his own plans, completely failing to notice Maekar's brief, stone-faced grimace at the mention of that name, or the bastard’s derisive snicker.
"The discipline of our current forces is in dire need of rectification; a complete overhaul is likely required. I have lost count of the reports I’ve received from Brynden this year regarding the Gold Cloaks’ extortion, bribery, and rampant criminality. Aside from formal sentencing, our Master of Laws is powerless to restrain them."
"At present, the waters around the River Gate are in urgent need of dredging, and Flea Bottom has not only suffered an outbreak of infection but is rife with rumors of the Gold Cloaks acting with absolute impunity..." The Crown Prince’s expression grew increasingly solemn as he spoke, seemingly forgetting that he was still entirely naked. "I fear that if these festering sores are not excised promptly, they will become a breeding ground for many calamities."
"So, Maekar, my dear brother," those luminous heterochromatic eyes turned to him once more, carrying a plea and expectation even more pronounced than before: "Are you willing to accept this post? For our father, for this city—for me."
If he did not know Baelor Targaryen’s obsessive insistence on justice and honor so well, and if he did not so clearly understand the Prince of Dragonstone’s profound devotion to his family, Maekar would almost suspect that all of this was a snare set by his brother to lure him in.
...But even if it were, so what? After the trials of this singular night, he would willingly accept ten, or even a hundred, tasks more grueling than cleaning the gutters of King’s Landing, if only to earn a permanent place by his brother’s side.
And so Maekar Targaryen moved in, pressing his brother down beneath him, claiming in advance the reward he was owed for accepting such a thankless burden.
The question was so simple it required no thought.
After all, he is the Crown Prince of the Realm, and I am his knight. A knight is sworn to serve his Prince—whether before the iron throne, or within the silk of his bed.